


(Sherlock X Reader) What Happened In Room 32

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cute, Cute Ending, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Feel-good, First Kiss, First Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Friendship, Happy, Happy Ending, Hotel Sex, Hotels, Innocent Sherlock, Light Angst, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, Mild Smut, One Night Stands, Pre-Relationship, Reader-Insert, Relationship(s), Romance, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's First Time, Sweet, Wedding Fluff, Weddings, funny I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: A spur-of-the-moment kiss leads to a passionate night together, but does Sherlock want it to be something more?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	(Sherlock X Reader) What Happened In Room 32

Another wedding.

Y/N was at that age where everyone she knew seemed to be getting married. This time it was her flatmate's old friend and previous roommate, John Watson. Y/N had met him several times, but she wouldn't say they were friends---she hadn't spent enough time with him to call him a friend. He'd come over for a cup of tea, then by the time the kettle had boiled he'd have to rush off again, usually to the surgery where he works, or he just has to leave early because it takes so long to cross London back to his new house.

John's distance---physically and emotionally---had made Y/N wonder why Sherlock had been invited to the wedding at all. Sure, he'd lived with Sherlock for a couple of months before moving out with his girlfriend several years ago, but that had been, well, several years ago. They didn't even seem that close; when John came over Y/N couldn't help noticing Sherlock's change in demeanour. It was like watching him put on an outfit she wasn't used to seeing him wear; turning him into an aloof stranger. During conversation, it was almost as if he was keeping John's companionship away with a ten-foot pole, skillfully dodging any queries into his personal life, steering topics back to simple things like work or...well, work.

"Why do you go all quiet when John comes over?" Y/N couldn't help asking one day, after one of said man's hurried visits. Not only had Sherlock said very little, but the things he had said had been clipped and in a tone of voice that suggested he'd rather not have to say anything at all. Not like the Sherlock Y/N knew; excited about cases and science and a book he'd just read, mind constantly whirring with ideas and thoughts he enjoyed sharing.

"You know how you sometimes act a certain way with a person, and then before you know it it's too late to show them who you really are?"

Y/N thought about it. She definitely knew that feeling, and it was somehow comforting to know that even The Great Sherlock Holmes wasn't immune to such mistakes. To this day, a colleague of Y/N's has been under the impression that Y/N's name is pronounced [wrong way], just because Y/N had been too shy to correct him when they'd first met. And she'd be lying if she said she hadn't faked a small part of her personality every now and again to fit into social groups. "I get that. Why, out of all the ways you could have acted, did you choose to pretend to be an unfeeling machine?"

Sherlock had shrugged his shoulders, continuing to tune his violin with his long pale fingers. "I was in a bad mood back then. I got introduced to John while I was looking at some evidence at the labs in Scotland Yard. Sally had been ordered to fetch the evidence for me, which she obviously didn't like, and had told me what she thought of me just before John walked in. I guess I just...wanted someone to think me pretty cool. Which he did, so I didn't stop doing it."

Y/N had tried to imagine that; Sherlock not doing all his little Sherlock-things---pretending to be someone else---in his own home. "You had to go months without singing in the shower? Without mouthing the words to ABBA as you wash up? Without doing that thing you do where you eat your food in a certain order?"

The corners of Sherlock's lips had twitched up with an embarrassed smile. "I don't sing in the shower." Before Y/N could contradict him: "And I could still do the last thing; he knows about my Asperger's syndrome. I think that's what made him think I was interesting; I'm like...an oddity. Something strange in his boring little life. That's why I couldn't do the other things; he'd think me boring."

Y/N turned that information over in her mind. "That's sad."

Sherlock had finished tuning his violin and placed it in one smooth motion under his chin, getting ready to play. "Yeah. But I didn't mind so much. I didn't know him very well, so I probably wouldn't have felt comfortable opening up with him anyway."

...

Presently, Y/N waited for the taxi to come to a stop before stepping out of it, gravel crunching under the soles of her feet. Every wedding party started like this, she mused as Sherlock paid the driver. Weddings always start with a wide gravel driveway leading to a countryside manor house, guests flocking to the doors like ants into a nest. Very smartly-dressed ants, in this case. The invitations had specified formal attire, which, actually had been one of the only reasons Y/N had agreed to attend. As soon as Sherlock's invitation had slid through the mailbox he'd asked Y/N to come with him as his plus-one. Y/N had agreed, mainly because she was his best friend and didn't want him to have to face a social event alone, and also because of the opportunity to see him in suit and tie.

The wedding party hadn't even started yet and Y/N had already firmly made up her mind that agreeing to come had been worth it. Sherlock looked...dashing? Gorgeous? Breathtakingly attractive? Since he'd emerged from his bedroom this morning, every time Y/N had looked at her best friend she hadn't been able to help but notice how his perfectly-tailored suit clung neatly to his slender, sinewy body. She'd be wrenching her mind away from mental images of him in it for the rest of her life, she just knew it.

Yes, Y/N was very strongly attracted to Sherlock Holmes, but, she reassured herself, so was anyone who set eyes on him. The fact that he had the power to make her knees weak just by uttering her name doesn't mean anything, and wouldn't affect their relationship at all, she'd decided.

"We'll only stay for a bit," Sherlock said, breaking her stupor. "Just long enough so we can say we went."

"Why did you agree to go if you didn't want to?" Y/N asked as they joined the flow of people slowly being consumed by the venue at the end of the driveway. It had surprised her that he'd agreed to go at all; Sherlock is far from a social person, infinitely preferring quiet nights in reading a book or watching a film to going to a club with friends. In fact, spending his time doing anything of the sort just didn't seem to occur to him. True, this was a wedding party, not a club, but even those seemed far from Sherlock's usual habitat. Not that he looked it; he looked more than at home. Like a wedding-guest stock-photo model. But prettier.

"I'm a groomsman, I could hardly say no."

"I don't think he would have minded you not coming to the party, you just had to turn up at the church."

Their conversation was interrupted as they reached the entrance, John and his hew wife, Amy, flushing excitedly and shaking their guest's hands as they went inside. The venue looked magnificent up close, and even more magnificent inside, towering windows flooding the airy space with sunny June daylight and picturesque views of the surrounding countryside. Bunches of white and purple balloons billowed in pillars like bubbles from a fizzy drink, confetti strategically strewn over the expansive table barley supporting a mountain of gifts addressed to the new couple. Y/N couldn't' help giggling to herself at the memory of Sherlock purchasing the gravy boat they'd registered for. _"Why would anyone waste an opportunity for free gifts on a gravy boat?!"_ He'd exclaimed, apparently appalled.

The main hall of the manor house was exceedingly large, the majority of it set up as a dining area and the rest not set up as anything because it was clearly a dance floor. An elaborate buffet was spread out over several narrow tables along one side of the room, which Y/N knew Sherlock would be pleased about, being famously somewhat choosy about what he eats. He was also obviously pleased when they located where they'd be sitting; a small round table nestled in the corner of the room with only two chairs.

"I don't understand weddings like this," Sherlock said, pale eyes surveying the room, passing over the lacey table clothes and frilly centrepieces with obvious contempt. "I think there comes a point where a wedding stops being about celebrating two people's dedication to one another and starts being about throwing an impressive party." 

Y/N gave him a teasing smirk, nudging his foot with hers under the table. "So Sherlock Holmes has a bit of romance tucked away in that logic-driven head of his?"

He quickly tried to disguise the dusting of pink his cheekbones had acquired with nonchalance as he replied: "I have a bit of everything tucked away in my _well-balanced_ head. I just think that if it was _my_ wedding, I wouldn't care about the groomsmen's ties matching the flowers, or the bridesmaids all having their hair in that same twisty plait thing. Colour coordination and hairstyles would be the last thing on my mind." He'd started absently making a little pile out of the violet sequin hearts that decorated their table, keeping his gaze fixed on it as if preferring not to make eye contact while spilling something so personal. 

"Would you ever get married?" Y/N asked, trying to sound casual---although she felt anything but. Maybe it was because the thought of her crush marrying someone that wasn't her caused a hot flush to creep up the back of her neck. Maybe it was because she'd just never heard Sherlock talk about anything like this before, and she didn't want to scare him off now that he was.

Sherlock had collected all the sequins from his side of the table and began picking them up between his delicate finger and thumb, letting them run through his grip and back onto the tablecloth. "I don't know. Maybe. If I was with someone I wanted to marry---and she wanted to marry me too, obviously. I didn't use to think I'd ever want to be in a relationship, but now I don't think they look so bad, so who knows." He pushed out a bitter laugh, "I'd have to have someone want to date me first, so I have all the time in the world to make up my mind."

Failing to hold back her bewilderment, Y/N chuckled as if he'd said something very very stupid (because he had). "You talk like someone wanting to date you is impossible."

"Well isn't it?" He said back indifferently. As if it was just a fact he knew to be indisputably true, as if he'd been asked if the sea is made of water, or if gravity is what keeps us on the planet's surface.

"'Course it's not, you idiot."

Sherlock's serene expression turned to mild shock.

Y/N didn't know if it was at her tone, the idea she'd posited, or the fact that she'd called him an idiot, and she didn't care. "You're intelligent, sensitive, kind, compassionate---"

The pink flush Sherlock had gained when his love-life had been metaphorically examined under the metaphorical microscope deepened to an embarrassed red, and he tipped his head forwards, hiding his eyes with his fringe. "I didn't ask for pity---"

"I'm not pitying you, I'm just saying you're blind."

What could be mistaken as a shy smile playing on his perfectly curved lips. "I appreciate the effort, Y/N, but really, there's no need. I don't know why I said anything; I'm not the kind of person to get mixed up in all that...dating, etcetera, anyway. Forget it."

Y/N didn't know if it was the dejected undertone slipping into his voice, or the tired acceptance in which he said it: she suddenly felt slightly sorrowful. Yes, the thought of him dating anyone that was not her was painful, but seeing him like this was even worse. She didn't want to forget it, she wanted to take his slender hand now resting on the table and tell him people do want to be in a relationship with him, they _do_ , and she knows because she is one of them, a living, breathing example. But she didn't. He's already uncomfortable enough in this room full of people, he'd probably just get up and leave if his flatmate confessed her undying love for him as well. Sherlock is the closest friend she'd ever had, their home-life the happiest she'd ever been. Risking tipping such a perfectly balanced scale was not worth it.

Oh, dear. She's in love.

  
...

Electing to ignore that thought (it was easy to ignore because---Y/N realised---she'd known it deep down for some time), Y/N broke the silence half-heartedly, "If you say so. Hey, it was nice of John to let us sit sort-of by ourselves. Do you think he did it on purpose because he knew we wouldn't know anyone here?"

"He probably did it so I don't say anything I shouldn't to his friends and family," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"It's not your fault people are intimidated by intelligence." Y/N didn't see the happy smile that lit up Sherlock's face at her compliment because she'd turned in her chair to look around the room. Most of the seats were occupied now by the other guests and an anticipative hum of conversation buzzed around the high-ceiling like bees caught in a net. They were wondering if the buffet was open or if the bride and groom had to declare the party officially started before they could eat. Y/N knew because she was also wondering the same thing.

As if he could sense her thoughts, Sherlock said: "What are we supposed to do now? Like, what happens next?"

Turning back to face him: "Not much. People just eat food, drink, and later dance a bit. Have you never been to a wedding before?"

"No. One of my cousins got married when I was eleven but I didn't go."

"I envy you. I've been to so many recently I'm going to be picking confetti out of my hair until 2045."

Sherlock chuckled, and it made Y/N's whole day. She continued:

"It seems like all my friends are getting married at the moment. I guess we're just at that age. It's like they're all following some instinct that all of a sudden demands they have a ring on their finger. I don't feel it, personally. Maybe I would if I was with someone, but I just don't have that urge to go out and meet anyone if I'm honest." Y/N left out the reason why she didn't want to meet someone: because she had eyes only for the man sitting across from her. And meeting someone else would mean eventually moving out and away from him---which she really didn't want to do, to the extent of being willing to turn down a romantic relationship even if a guy literally threw himself at her feet.

She had been talking to herself, really, musing aloud, but Sherlock seemed surprisingly engaged in what she'd been saying.

"I think I've felt like that my whole life. At primary school, everyone cared about video games and stuff, but I didn't. Then in high school and college, it was just first relationships and exams, and I didn't care about those either. The curious thing is, _you_ don't seem to mind being out of the loop, but I have always felt like everyone else is inside a really nice house and I'm trapped outside staring wistfully in the window." He had finished fiddling with the sequins so moved on to examining the vase of flowers set between them, selecting various stems and inspecting them dispassionately, just as something to do.

"Yeah?" These moments were some of Y/N's favourites. During long drives, or when he had no cases, Sherlock and Y/N would have interesting conversations to keep their minds busy, and this one was well on its way to becoming just that. In the few years that Y/N had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never once mentioned the fact that he didn't really enjoy being an outsider. Y/N had always been under the impression that he revels in his differences, enjoying his eccentricity. It was quickly becoming apparent that she'd been quite wrong.

"Yeah. Like...video games are stupid, but people seem to have a lot of fun while playing them and I guess I just wanted to be a part of that, you know? I think it's been like that for as long as I can remember. Like at university, my classmates would go to parties. I never wanted to go, but I kind of wished I did because they seemed to have fun."

"You have fun in your own way, though," Y/N tried reassuringly, hoping she sounded like his friend and not a sympathetic school councillor.

Sherlock shrugged his broad shoulders. "Hm. But I miss out on a lot of things too. I've never been to a concert, or kissed a woman, or gone on holiday as an adult, or watched Star Wars---"

"Do you actually want to do any of those things, though?" Y/N didn't really know what to do now. How does one persuade someone else that they're perfect just the way they are, and that their perfection does not directly correlate to the number of mainstream trends they partake in?

Sherlock seemed to find a sudden and intense interest in a patch of the tablecloth. "Some of them."

Before Y/N could enquire as to which ones, someone across the room had started tapping a campaign glass with a fork---or that's what it sounded like.

"Can I have everyone's attention, please?" A voice called to the room at large, and Y/N realised it was probably John giving a speech before he finally let his hungry guests eat the food they were all wistfully sneaking glances at.

...

"Look what I found." Y/N proudly placed the plate she was holding down on their little two-person table like a pirate displaying the gold they'd stolen to their captain. The plate held several melted-chocolate covered strawberries and marshmallows stabbed through with kabab sticks and Sherlock visibly perked up at the sight of them.

Dinner had been eaten and Sherlock and Y/N were getting bored, and a little claustrophobic. They could leave their table but there was no one they wanted to talk to, and nowhere, really, to go, so they were stranded, of sorts, left with nothing to occupy them apart from word games and whatever nibbles they could find when they were brave enough to face the crowd around the dessert table.

Sherlock took one of the sticks and bit into a strawberry with satisfaction. "I can't believe you managed to get at the chocolate fountain. Did you have to beat up many of John's relatives, or did you just climb _onto_ the table?"

It took Y/N a few seconds to realise he'd said anything; she'd been distracted by his pink tongue licking up the chocolate he'd gotten on his nimble fingers. "I didn't beat up anyone, but I did have to get in there fast, they're like gannets." Y/N watched as her friend finished his first stick and started on another, raising her eyebrows. "As---it turns out---are you. I didn't know you liked strawberries that much, I would have brought more."

"I love strawberries. We used to grow them at home when I was growing up."

"Did you have a community garden?"

He looked momentarily confused. "I didn't need to, we had our own land. I didn't grow up in London, nowhere near it."

"Really? You have posh-city-boy written all over you."

An amused chocolate-dappled smile twitched Sherlock's lips. "I actually grew up in a cottage in the countryside. I only moved to London because I wanted to solve crimes so I had to go to where the crimes were being committed." The memories seemed to please him, a fond light behind his bright eyes as he recalled: "The worst crime we had in rural England was this one time when our neighbour accused my dad of stealing his dog."

"And had he?"

"Had he what?"

"Had your dad stolen your neighbour's dog?"

"No, of course not. That was one of the first cases I ever cracked, actually; I found her in the neighbour's woodshed at the end of his garden. She had hidden away to have a litter. Mr Fitcher was so pleased he let me keep one of them."

Y/N shook her head in disbelief. "I'm learning so much about you today. I never would have thought you were a dog person, or a country boy, or guessed that you were so obsessed with strawberries. Why didn't you ever talk about this stuff before?"

Sherlock used his napkin to rid himself of the last remnants of chocolate. "It never seemed relevant."

 _'Everything about you is relevant to me',_ Y/N wanted to say, but bit it back with well-practised ease. "Well, I'm glad it was relevant today."

"Why? It's boring."

Y/N didn't agree to that at all. There was nothing boring about finding out that someone you were under the impression you knew really well is actually another person entirely to who you thought they were. Someone sweeter, someone more innocent, someone who spent their childhood running through marshy fields and plucking fresh fruit from home-grown shrubs. "It's not boring to me. How is it boring?"

"Because it's just ordinary mundane stuff. My childhood was rather uneventful."

"That's a good thing. Tell me about it?"

The expression on Sherlock's face was that of complete bewilderment but he---probably realising there was nothing better to do---gave in anyway. He told Y/N of summers spent hunting for caterpillars in his mother's vegetable patch, of walking with his brother to the farm down the road to buy eggs. Mrs Holmes would make her own bread, giving them grilled toast for breakfast with wedges of local honeycomb on a saucer. His father would drive them to Wales every year in a beaten-up old Ford Capri for a rain-soaked camping trip in the mountains. His brother aced every subject at school but Sherlock struggled with maths. They'd make sugar paper hats, and swords from rolled-up newspapers, and play pirates. Their family would visit the beach some weekends, the sky always puddle-grey, the sand grainy, seals popping their heads out of the clay-stained waves.

Sherlock's voice was so deeply mellow, his words painting such soothing mental images, that Y/N felt jolted when someone said beside her:

"Hey, I'm so glad you came, Sherlock, a small part of me didn't think you would."

Said man looked nettled, irritated at the interruption. Y/N wondered if he was annoyed about the unexpected chat, or that his story had to be suspended. While he'd been recollecting his past he'd drifted off to some faraway place, gaze clouded with a nostalgic haze. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that he could just talk and have someone listen, whether he thought what he was saying was boring or not. Everyone needs someone like that, Y/N decided. Someone to just...listen, even when you're not really saying anything at all.

"I said I would, so I did," Sherlock's amiable tone had disappeared and was replaced with the usual clipped way he addressed his old roommate. He was wearing that metaphorical mask again, but John saw through it.

"Hi, Y/N, nice to see you." His already euphoric face split into a larger grin and he playfully joked: "Are you here as Sherlock's date?"

"No, I'm just keeping him company," Y/N laughed light-humouredly, hoping they couldn't hear her brain loudly yelling ' _I wish'._ She was too busy doing that to notice the colour Sherlock's cheekbones had gone.

"I'm just going to get something from the buffet," he excused himself, rising to his full height, the contrast of his compared to John's being somewhat amusing.

Left to continue small talk with someone she didn't know, well, at all, Y/N struggled for something to say as John took Sherlock's vacated seat. This was one of her least favourite parts of weddings; when the hosts flitter around their crowd of adoring guests and greet them personally. In Y/N's experience, this usually involved them showing off their rings and using the phrase 'your time will come' as if Y/N was not complete without a husband on her arm. She could easily disregard the condescension, after all, her friends hadn't meant it that way. They were just swept up in their own happiness and wanted everyone else to feel the same level of joy. No, what Y/N really hated about those moments is the fact that her friends looked...not like her friends anymore. Suddenly they're adults, the only thing standing between them and a life of mortgages, picket-fences, and nappy-changing being a honeymoon.

Y/N wouldn't say she's fed up with social conventions, but they sure do get repetitive. Maybe that's why she's so drawn to Sherlock, so pleased to have him in her life. He doesn't fall for all that rubbish. And if he did, he'd probably put his own unique spin on it. She had to hold in a smile at the mental image that her mind conjured of Sherlock Holmes being domestic. He'd probably celebrate anniversaries by taking his partner to a famous crime spot, and if he did have children he'd obviously sing them the periodic table song rather than lullabies as he put them to bed.

Wrenching her mind to the present moment, Y/N focused her attention back on John. He looked like every groom she'd ever seen. Happy, but looking like he'd seen several hundred more samples of napkins than he'd have liked. _'Sherlock's right,'_ she thought. _'Weddings do seem to be more about throwing a party than the pair's love for one another'._ "Are you having a good day so far? You two looked lovely at the church." Same line, same answering tiered smile. 

"Yeah, yeah, definitely. I mean, of course, it's my wedding day, it's the best day of my life." He ran a hand through his sandy hair as if that was just something he said but didn't really believe. Wedding parties probably aren't his idea of a good time. They probably aren't his new wife's either. They aren't anyone's, yet people continue to have them because of traditions, and...stuff. Sherlock's way of thinking was definitely rubbing off on her, Y/N realised. Or just exposing what had already been there, buried, dormant, waiting to be brought out. "I'm glad you came, really, I know how Sherlock doesn't like this sort of thing. It's good for him to have you here."

She blinked in surprise. "You think?" She'd always considered the focused, logical detective being good for _her_ , not the other way around. 

"Yeah, definitely. You're good for him in general, to be honest. I mean, look at him."

"What about him?"

It was John's turn to be surprised now. His tone of voice suggested there was a prominent point and Y/N had completely missed it. "Hadn't you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"Everything." John gestured at the empty plates stacked at the edge of the table, waiting to be collected by one of the various waiters floating smoothly throughout the room like helpful ghosts. "First of all, he's actually eating properly. Second, he's obviously happier; I honestly don't think I'd seen him genuinely smile while I lived with him, not unless there was a cadaver or a violent murder involved. He was thin, too, ever so thin. Now, look at him. You know he joined a gym?"

A few puzzle pieces fell neatly into place with that information. "So that's where he goes. I did wonder. How did you know?"

"I saw him there once. I couldn't believe it; he didn't use to have the motivation to get up before twelve. It's doing him good, he's filled out a lot more. He looks a lot healthier. I used to worry about him."

"Worry about who?" Sherlock's deep and inquisitive baritone sounded behind Y/N as he soundlessly approached their table. He had managed to locate more strawberries, and John stood, giving his seat back to him which he settled back into appreciatively, giving Sherlock a hearty pat on the back.

"Nothing, just something Y/N and I were talking about. Thanks for coming, again. Sorry that Amy couldn't come over and say hi with me, she's catching up with old friends. Enjoy the rest of the party." 

...

Mingling had long since begun now that dinner had been eaten, and Sherlock and Y/N watched as John left their table and got absorbed by the mass of suits and summer dresses. The sun had begun setting, it's rich light matured to a deep orange and guests started moving towards the other end of the hall, signalling that the party had moved into its second half.

Y/N prefered the first half of wedding parties. The first half gave you one of two options: you could sit and eat the meal being served, or you could migrate to your neighbouring tables and chat.

However, the second half mainly meant one thing; dancing, which is something Y/N didn't want to do. Not because she didn't want to dance, but because she just didn't have anyone to dance with. At her friend's weddings, the ones that were in a relationship would select a few squares of the checked floor and tangle each other in a tight embrace, then begin swaying to whatever slow eighties love ballad the DJ had fished out of his overused wedding playlist. The single people who wanted to be in a relationship would nervously pick their way through the crowd, pairing up, then hold each other at arm's-length before making fake promises about calling each other once the party was over. That left the single people who didn't want to be with anyone, or who---like Y/N---had someone in mind so had zero interest in finding another partner.

"Do you want to be going now?" Y/N asked Sherlock when their conversation reached a natural lull. John had booked them a room each at the nearest hotel, a courtesy to all his guests for dragging them several hours drive out of London, and the quiet solitude was looking more and more appealing to Y/N as the evening went on. Well, she didn't want to be alone, but all the couples now making their way together to the dance floor, all this 'love in the air', was reminding her of the fact that she _was,_ and she didn't like it.

Sherlock had leaned back in his chair some time ago, his lanky body curved lazily, his whole demeanour had shifted from weary to relaxed, but he tensed back up now at Y/N's suggestion. "Actually, would you mind staying a bit longer?" He scratched behind his neck, unruly curls engulfing his slim fingers. "I know I don't usually...like this sort of thing, but I'm actually having a nice time."

"Really?" Y/N couldn't help the note of disbelief that crept into her exclamation, and he fractionally inclined his shoulders.

"Mm. We don't have to, you can go if you want, I just thought that..."

She'd moved to get up, sure that her friend would eagerly follow, but now resumed her previous position, watching him curiously. "I don't mind staying if you want to."

"Thank you." He paused, eyes fixed on the couples moving from side to side under the drunkenly meandering mood lights. Their smooth flow of conversation had been interrupted and Y/N wondered what Sherlock hoped to spend the rest of the evening doing. Why did he even want to stay at all? If he wanted to continue talking they could do that on the way to the hotel.

As if in answer, still staring over her shoulder, Sherlock suddenly said, quietly: "Do you want to dance?"

Y/N was so surprised she just said stupidly: "What?"

"People are dancing. Over there. Do you want to join them? With me. Obviously." He was rambling.

Y/N had never heard him ramble before. "Are you asking me because you feel obligated to, seeing as you invited me here, or do you actually want to dance?"

"I want to. The music is nice and I've always liked dancing. I just never had anyone to do it with."

Not caring that it sounded cliche, Y/N couldn't help a beam light up her previously bored expression: "Well you do now." She stood up, holding a hand out for him to take then flushed, embarrassed at her own eagerness. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, though; his own lips were tweaked up into an inadvertent smile as he took her outstretched palm in a way that could only be described as bashfully.

...

Y/N let Sherlock lead her onto the dance floor, thankful for the low lighting cloaking her blushing cheeks in semi-darkness---and she _was_ blushing. She was blushing at the prospect of dancing with her best friend in such an intimate way. She was blushing at the feeling of his hand clasping hers; her fingers curled perfectly into the spaces between Sherlock's long slender ones, his large palm fitting gently around Y/N's smaller one. She was blushing at the thought that in a few short moments she'd be standing so close to him that she would be able to feel his heartbeat.

And she was blushing at the fact that Sherlock Holmes likes to _dance_.

They had reached the dance floor, Sherlock taking Y/N to an empty spot where the music wasn't as loud, and turning to her, offering her an uncharacteristically shy smile. Y/N gave him an answering grin, her joy and exhilaration manifesting obviously all over her face. She'd wanted to touch Sherlock for a long time, but now that the opportunity was presenting itself, she found she was---quite literally---unable to make the first move. Her whole body---brain included---seemed to just be frozen, shocked like a deer in the headlights.

Sherlock noticed her hesitancy, because of course he did, and must have mistaken it for not knowing what she was doing because he took her other hand in his and guided it to his shoulder. "Just follow my lead," he said quietly, stepping closer to Y/N, getting into a position to do so. His gravelly voice grated against some part of her, soothing her and yet also managing to awaken something she'd rarely felt. _'It's amazing',_ Y/N pondered ' _how he manages to touch parts of me I never even knew existed, without actually touching me at all.'_

Sherlock kept a couple of inches between their bodies respectfully as he started to guide them around their own tiny patch of floor, his hand placed delicately and unintrusively on her shoulder blade.

"You're good at that," Y/N complimented as they glided in a smooth circle, referring to his unexpected grace on the dance floor. Actually, it wasn't unexpected. Y/N had long since learnt to expect everything from this man. He sculpted his mind, his knowledge and expertise like an artist moulds clay, tweaking, adding and removing, never fully satisfied. His brain is a project that he will never see as finished, not until he has mastered every skill he ever dreamed he'd have, was aware of every piece of information he deemed he'd want.

Sherlock didn't reply, just smiled down at her, the lights casting shadows below his cheekbones, lighting his hair from behind like a halo about his head. Usually, he avoids prolonged eye contact; whether because it makes him uncomfortable or because he'd rather know what was going on around him, Y/N didn't know. Right now, though, neither of those things appeared to be on his mind. He was fondly gazing straight down into Y/N's eyes and the effect was breathtaking. Not only because his irises are exceedingly beautiful up close, not only because his pupils---now wide in the low light---appeared to swallow her whole, but mainly because Y/N knew she currently held every last drop of his attention. And it felt amazing. It felt like he could see straight through her skull to her brain, down into her soul, and he was analysing it, memorising every little detail and committing it to memory.

After a few more sweeping circles, Y/N felt Sherlock's hand at her shoulder slide down tentatively to the swell of her hip. "Is this okay?" His expression was trained on her face, hurriedly searching for any signs of discomfort.

Obviously he found none.

"It's wonderful." She was holding their friendship in her mind, now, turning it over, inspecting it. Was it strong enough to risk what she wanted to say? Or would it shatter with awkwardness into pieces, fixable but doomed to be forever slightly misshapen?

Y/N decided it was strong enough. More than strong enough. "You can hold me closer, if you want," she said, so quietly she was surprised he even managed to hear her over David Bowie's _Absolute Beginners_. He'd tensed, she could feel it through his suit, and she wondered with horror whether she'd made a mistake.

But then she felt his tummy bump into hers as he moved up against her, her head finding the haven of his broad chest, and he slackened as she rested some of her weight against him. He supported it, supported her, sturdy and unflinching, his chin finding rest on the top of her head. Y/N felt him sigh deeply like a man who'd just come home from weeks on the road.

At first, it had felt awkward, odd, being so close to her secret crush. She'd tried not to pay attention to his lithe body, so solid compared to her own softness. She'd tried not to imagine what lay beneath the fabric of his clothes; perfect alabaster skin like porcelain, all muscles and bones and moles like constellations strewn across an inverted night sky.

She didn't need to try anymore. Where before she'd been like a school girl nestled against her crush, she was now a woman in the arms of a man. A woman with a man in _her_ arms. There was a sense of balance between the two, a unison, an unspoken bond. Not a word travelled between them, just a strange, silent sense of connection. His body excited things within her, of course it did, she was only human, but she could ignore it simply because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Bringing any kind of harm to him was the last thing she wanted to do, she decided with a feeling of maturity. So she would dance with him as his friend, and ask for nothing more.

  
  


...

_'Restraint is easier said than done'_ , Y/N thought to herself as Sherlock released her hand and instead brought his own to settle with his other on the small of her back. He was using the position to pull her closer, subconsciously or intentionally she had no idea, but it was heaven. They weren't even dancing anymore, not really, just sort of standing there, swaying so slowly they were barely moving at all. If Y/N hadn't been so distracted by, well, everything, she would have wondered what Sherlock was thinking. She would have noted the fact that he obviously wanted her closer, that his heart was frantically beating in his ribcage, that his pupil's swelled whenever he looked at her. If she'd have noticed all that, it wouldn't have come as such a shock when he kissed her.

He'd done it lightly, on her neck, a soft, fluttering touch of his lips against her sensitive skin. Easy to deny, easy to pass off as a silly mistake, but real all the same, real and intentional and electrifying. A bolt of something had shot through every nerve of Y/N's being and she pulled away from their embrace enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. He stared back at her determinedly, challenging her. He'd put his cards on the table and now it was her move. They were standing so close together, still, that Y/N could feel his measured breathing, his breath caressing her face, his chest rising and falling, nudging her own.

Nothing exists anymore for Y/N, not the music, not the slow jostling of bodies around her, not anything. Like a camera focused on one specific subject, everything was fuzzy, a distorted, irrelevant haze. Everything apart from Sherlock. Slowly, she moved her hand at his shoulder over his neck, sliding it up into his hair. His curls passed between her fingers and---as if she'd tugged on a string---his eyes closed, his inexperienced body soaking up the simple touch as shivers of pleasure crawled across his skin.

He was bending down towards her again, falling rather than bending, actually, his cheek against Y/N's as she turned her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

As the saxophone burst into its solo, Sherlock found Y/N's lips with his own and pushed them together. He hummed as Y/N kissed back, she couldn't hear it but she felt the vibration of it through all of him, the feeling resonating from his chest, through his lips against hers. Her fingers in his hair tightened and she urged him closer, needing him to be closer. He pulled away to gasp in a quick gulp of air before drawing her back against him, one of his large hands taking the side of her face, cupping the delicate line of her jaw.

Despite this being their first kiss, and Sherlock's first kiss---well, ever---it wasn't slow, it wasn't tripped up by anxiousness. It was urgent, full of wanting, it was Sherlock tipping his head to the side---a silent plea to deepen it---and Y/N eagerly heeding his wishes, giving him what he wants; _needs._ He's eating up the kiss with a hunger, a lifetime of chained-up sensuality, of neglected curiosity, breaking free all at once, sweeping him up in a cascading wave of pure bliss.

Yes, he's new to it but he quickly picked it up, letting Y/N lead, stepping in when he found he could mimic her skill, match her movements, follow that rhythm his body already seemed to possess.

Y/N used one of the moans biting his swollen lower lip caused as an opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth and he groaned so loudly this time that she could hear it over the music. 

She broke the kiss, then, knowing that Sherlock wasn't going to be the one that took responsibility for their need to respire. As soon as she'd pulled away he'd started pressing kisses to her cheek, her jawbone, down her neck. Her insides clenched violently at the feel of it, her whole body eager for his touch. She's past the stage of goosebumps exploding in anticipation of his contact, and now at a point where her every nerve just ached, throbbed with a familiar longing.

 _'We're in public',_ Y/N thought suddenly, the realisation coming to her dully through the soup that was now her mind. ' _We're in public, and I'm almost a puddle on the floor.'_

"Do you want to go to the hotel now?"

It took several seconds for Sherlock's voice---guttural from moaning, and with a tone Y/N had never heard before---to reach her.

She swears he can read her thoughts. She couldn't help chuckling drunkenly---although she's not drunk. Not on alcohol. Can you get drunk on a person? "Yes." She knew what he was implying. She knew he was suggesting something that would mean they wouldn't be departing to their separate rooms tonight. 

With urgent intensity, Sherlock took Y/N's hand and led her off the dance floor in a straight, unwavering line to the door of the hall. The music faded behind them, along with the sensual glow of the lights, and they were thrust into the evening air with a crunching of gravel. Mist curled about their feet as Sherlock continued to tug Y/N behind him towards the road where taxis were already waiting for guests that wanted to leave early. Y/N was only behind her friend because she couldn't keep up with his long, sinewy legs. She wanted this as much as he so obviously does.

You'd think the night, the clarity, the solitude would cleanse their minds, make them come to their senses, but it didn't. The party and everything it brought with it seemed to be an irrelevant factor, Y/N would later contemplate. Sherlock's demeanour, his urgency seemed so steady, so powerful, that it probably wouldn't have mattered where they were; a light kiss of his lips, the feeling of her body against his was all it took to start this chain of events. Love ballads, a romantic day, suits and dresses weren't necessary for that equation.

Y/N caught a glance at Sherlock's face as he held the door of the closest cab open for her to climb inside. His hair----so styled this morning---was now ruffled from her fingers, cheekbones flushed an excited pink, lips a pleasingly biteable shade of red. His eyes were full of sparks but he didn't look starry-eyed, he looked focused as he pulled the divider up between them and the driver and starting a new kiss as soon as he'd distractedly closed the car door. Y/N was obviously his focus, Y/N and the feelings she could elect from him, the things she could do to him.

He was all mouth, against her neck, ear, jaw. He liked feeling Y/N with his lips, dragging them across her skin experimentally, nudging her, holding the back of her head as if to keep them steady. He kept checking before each new place, muttering against her, his voice a gritty growl. He clearly loved the way he could make her shiver to her core, but also loved how she could make him do the same; taking her hands and placing them to his head, a sign that he wanted her to tug on his curls again, use them to keep him close, groaning happily when she quickly complied.

He was more relaxed now that they were in the cab, as if saving his intensity. Y/N was surprised at his calmness; she'd thought he'd be in a state of helpless agitation; mentally willing the driver to go faster, to get them to the hotel as quickly as possible...

But Sherlock wasn't doing that. Y/N knew that some men would have just sat on their side of the taxi if they'd been in this situation. Sat, waiting for them to reach their destination, one thing on their minds and nothing else.

Sherlock wasn't one of those men. He seemed perfectly content to just...sit and gently kiss as the black vehicle wound its way down the country roads a little under the speed limit. _'If I wanted to',_ Y/N thought, _'I could probably push him away and say I don't want to do anything else, just kiss, and he'd be perfectly okay with it'._

...

The cab pulled up outside the hotel and Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. Y/N was the one to realise they'd ground to a halt, and nudged him away, him making a soft noise of discontent at the loss of contact before realising the reason for it. He quickly paid the driver, his previous intensity back, and leapt from the car.

The hotel John and Amy had paid for their guests to stay at was beautiful, and Y/N and Sherlock had admired it when they'd dropped their things off at it earlier in the day. 

Y/N had taken the lead now, directing Sherlock to her room---the one with the number thirty-two on the door. It's probably a good thing they'd memorised the layout of the hotel earlier because they weren't paying attention to anything like that right now.

As soon as they were inside Y/N closed the door with her foot just as Sherlock shyly but urgently nudged her up against it, his mouth finding hers in the dark. Y/N used his belt loops to pull him flush against herself, getting a muffled moan, her hands sliding up his more than pleasingly firm body, coming to rest on his chest. She wanted more of him, and tugged at his tie, loosening it, but she was taking too long and felt stronger fingers push her own out of the way, taking over. Sherlock slipped the tie from himself, throwing it, discarded, somewhere---anywhere---as if angry at the fact that it had been keeping Y/N from touching him in the place it had occupied.

Y/N could undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, now, and did after breaking the kiss enough to ask permission. He'd nodded distractedly, his lips roving over the side of her face and down her neck. "Wait," she said, and he stopped what he'd been doing, concern obvious in his voice when he asked:

"What is it?"

Y/N couldn't help chuckling at his gentleness; he's so scared he's doing something wrong. "Nothing, I just want a light on. So I can see you." Y/N left the warm security of Sherlock's arms, crossing to the bedside table where she knew a lamp to be standing and clicked it on, filling the room with a subtle, warm glow. Sherlock was still by the door, watching her, a bashful smile playing on his face, maybe at the thought that someone _wanted_ to see him.

Sherlock stepped closer, Y/N's eyes drifting to his exposed collarbones as he took her hips in his large hands and she tipped her head forward enough to kiss him there, in that hollow at the base of his neck. He hummed deep in his chest as she continued, drawing a trail that ended with the space connecting his shoulder to his neck, which she took between her teeth. He gasped, a quick intake of breath.

"Did I hurt you?" Y/N checked worriedly, and felt him shake his head.

"No. I felt something."

Smirking, feeling special at being the one to introduce this gorgeous man to this new feeling, Y/N gave him another kiss and uttered against him: "Something good?"

"Something very good."

"I'll try to do it again." Her hands unfastened the rest of his shirt buttons, him having to remove his jacket for her to do so, and both items joined his tie on the hotel floor. Y/N understood, now, what John had been saying about Sherlock's improved health. Now that he was standing here, his toned torso bare before her eyes, it was obvious what he'd meant. She let her eyes slide over him, the broad, powerful width of his shoulders, his solid chest tapering down to his narrow waist, defined v lines sweeping clearly into his trousers.

Tentatively, she reached out, the tips of her fingers tingling as they made contact with the skin at his stomach. Sherlock was kissing her neck again, the fluttering of his breath caressing her shoulder as her palms joined in her exploration, sliding along his ribs, around his body to grip at his muscular back. He shifted below her touch, urging her closer, and Y/N nudged him backwards until the backs of his legs made contact with the bed.

He fell onto it willingly, probably glad for the excuse to sit down, making a low moaning sound as Y/N settled her weight onto his lap. His lips were level with the base of Y/N's neck now, and he quickly took advantage of the fact, pressing kisses along the top of her chest, nudging the fabric of her dress with his nose. He clearly wants it out of the way. Y/N did too, so she slid it over her head in one smooth motion, dropping it to the floor. She didn't even hesitate before unclasping her bra and tossing it aside too. She didn't feel shy about being this vulnerable in front of Sherlock, she realised as she watched for his reaction. She didn't feel shy about anything when she's with him. Especially not now, not when he's gazing, star-struck, at her as if she's the single most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He breathed in a shaky breath, replenishing his lungs with oxygen. His eyes were fixed on Y/N's, fixed like he was keeping them there, afraid to look anywhere else, even though he really wanted to.

Y/N giggled at him, at his innocence, at what a gentleman he is, at the look on his face, and took his slender wrist softly. "You can touch. If you want." Guiding his large hand to one of her breasts, she lowered her voice, tipping his head down with the hand cupping his jawline so she could bury her face in his curls. "I want you to touch."

Sherlock's breath is ragged against Y/N's bare chest as his hands tentatively explore her every curve, his enjoyment extremely obvious. One of his hands is at the small of Y/N's back, supporting her, and she leans back against it, making her midriff more accessible, a pleading invitation. Sherlock knows what she wants, his lips tugged into a grin as he dips his head forwards, the perfectly curved pads of his lips meeting her skin with a groan from both of them.

...

Pushing his hips up so that Y/N could slide his belt from his waist, Sherlock muttered an expletive under his breath. A woman was undressing him, the thought of that, the friction as Y/N eased off his trousers made goosebumps prickle down his arms and legs, his usually astute brain fogged with pleasure. He shifted comfortably, the suspense thrilling and killing him simultaneously. 

Y/N had pushed Sherlock down onto his back some time ago and was now crouching over him, making a trail of kisses from his lips (parted from moaning) down, over his torso. Sherlock squirmed as a small wave of satisfaction catches him off guard, Y/N smirking against his stomach, now, at the noises he's making.

 _'Who knew Sherlock Holmes was so loud,'_ she thought, catching sight of one of his hands gripping the bed sheets as his muscles tensed when her lips caressed just above the band of his underwear. She continues her trail, swerving his arousal teasingly, pressing a few kisses to his thighs instead, and a breath rushes out of him in a sob of need.

"Please," he gritted out. He's begging. He never begs. So this is what it takes to break him? He can withstand punches, kicks, being poisoned and beaten to a pulp, but tantalise him, teasingly withhold sexual satisfaction and he'll plead with you just like that? Interesting.

Sherlock didn't seem to find it interesting, his inexperienced body was aching, his every nerve throbbing with hunger and he quickly switched their places, manoeuvring Y/N down onto the bed in an attempt to satisfy it. Settling his still-underwear-covered hips between Y/N's thighs, he whimpered against her mouth at the sudden rushing pleasure he got from it, and she giggled.

"Nice?" She asked, referring to the feeling of him being there, and he made a pitiful noise as she rubbed her leg against the warm strength of his upper leg. It doubles his lust tenfold, he's just a quivering mess in her arms.

Y/N kissed him deeply again, letting him enjoy the sensation of being on top for as long as he was capable of. He was quickly melting, however, and she eventually took his muscular shoulders, using them to push him back onto the bed again, making his eyes slip closed. "As this is your first time..." Using every piece of willpower she possessed, she moved away from him, over to her purse by the door to retrieve protection. "Just lay back..."

He hated the loss of contact, clearly, but soon perked up as Y/N took the band of his underwear and painfully slowly began to slide it off. Panting, his curls messed up around his head on the pillow, his eyes now open and watching her, exhilaration is written all over his flushed face. He's perfect. All of him is perfect.

"And receive."

  
...

To Y/N's delight, Sherlock was still in her bed when she awoke the next morning. Although, him not having sneaked off as soon as he'd got his way with her didn't actually mean anything, she reminded herself. For all she knew, someone to hold him while he sleeps might be _part_ of 'his way'. Her lips curved into a smile; if a cuddle was 'his way' Sherlock was more than getting it. Y/N was laying on her back, Sherlock's curly head nestled under her chin, rising and falling on her bare chest. She could track the whole of his long, lithe body against the side of her own. She remembered, then, with a blush and a slight thrill of excited satisfaction, that they were still unclothed. One of his legs resting on top of both of hers as if he's subconsciously trying to tangle them as tightly as possible. _'Sort of like how one holds a rag doll,'_ Y/N mused, enjoying the lazy grip of his hand at her side, the weight of his arm across her body. _'Or a dragon clutches its treasure.'_

The sun was already high in the sky, its impressive light leaking through the hotel's gauzy white cotton curtains, and a small tilt of Y/N's head allowed her to catch a glimpse at the digital clock sitting on her bedside table. Eleven in the morning had passed several minutes ago. Her smile broadened at the memory of why she'd been so tired, why she'd been able to sleep all through the night and late into the next day.

Absently, she stroked a hand over Sherlock's back; and he shifted against her, his lungs filling with air then deflating in a long, contented sigh. Y/N hadn't meant to wake him. Waking him meant talking, and talking meant facing the meaning behind what they'd done together hours before. Talking meant discussing what it had meant when Sherlock had kissed her on the dance floor. Talking meant picking apart why Y/N had let him. It meant dissecting the future implications of Sherlock having moaned Y/N's name loud enough to wake the whole hotel.

"Comfy?" Y/N asked, deciding to hide her insecurity below a thick coat of light-hearted humour, not that it was difficult. If Sherlock didn't look so vulnerable right now, and maybe if they were dating, Y/N would have lovingly made fun of his surprising affinity for being cuddled. 

Her other hand was at his side, her arm looped under and around him, and she ran a finger over his shoulder blade. She didn't know why. It was just nice having him there.

Sherlock gripped her tighter, pulling her entire body further into the lanky curve of his own. "Yes. Very."

Y/N would be lying if she said she didn't feel elated at the fact that he still hadn't got out of bed and started getting dressed. She'd also be lying if she said she hadn't played his voice over again several times in her head, analysing it for any shred of emotion, a hint of what he might be thinking _. 'He can leave if he wants,'_ Y/N scolded herself, _'Of course he can leave. We didn't specify that there would be strings attached, so I shouldn't be surprised if he acts like there aren't.'_

But she couldn't help hoping. Of course _,_ she couldn't help wishing, dreaming, that him not having ditched her as soon as she fell asleep meant that it had meant something to him, just a little bit. Hell, she wanted it to mean a lot. She wanted it to be the start of something, something that involved them, and candle-lit dinners, and taking showers together, and waking up like this every day. _'No,'_ her conscience said, cutting off her fantasy with the simple, harsh negative. ' _I should be grateful that I got to spend the night with him at all; most people don't ever get to do that with their crush. I don't care if he sees this as a meaningless fling or not.'_

Obviously, that last bit was a lie.

"Are you?"

Y/N wrenched her mind back to the present moment, deciding to enjoy it while it lasts. Because it might be the last time she gets to. "Am I what?"

"Comfortable. I can move up if you want---" Sherlock had started to pull away, lifting himself off her but she tugged him gently back down again, settling his head back on her chest. His muscles slackened again as he melted into Y/N's embrace, her skin prickling as his once again made contact with hers.

It made her grin. "No, you can stay." She moved one hand up to immerse itself in his tousled hair and felt him hum appreciatively, the vibration of it reverberating through her body.

"Thank you."

They lay in silence but Y/N couldn't tell what kind. She gave up trying after a few minutes, realising she was doing it again; trying to figure out what last night meant; trying to find evidence that it had meant more than it had. Didn't Sherlock always say you shouldn't do that? Try to find evidence to fit a theory rather than the other way around?

Y/N tried to focus on something else instead. Contemplating the past and the fact that it was over made her melancholy, wondering about the future made her anxious, so she decided to turn her attention to the present moment...

The feeling of Sherlock's strong form encompassing her own. The heat coming off his body, soaking into hers. His heart beating where their bodies were pressed together. The sound of that person knocking on their door.

What?

"Shouldn't that be addressed?" Sherlock's voice, still thickened from sleep, mumbled as if he wondered why she hadn't reacted to it yet.

Y/N didn't want to address it. She didn't want to address anything. "You get it, I'm warm."

The curl of amusement in Sherlock's tone as he said: "I can't get it; this is your room." made a crystal clear image of his current expression appear in Y/N's mind. He'd be smirking, and still have his eyes closed. Y/N knows what he's thinking. He's thinking that he can't answer the door, because then the person knocking would know they'd spend the night together. And he's thinking she's silly for forgetting that that mustn't happen.

_'Oh. So he really does see last night as a one night stand.'_

"Oh, yeah, right. I'll get it." Trying to hide that she'd just suffered a pang of disappointment, Y/N distanced herself from Sherlock's limbs. If she'd been paying more attention she would have noticed that he was reluctant to let her go. And that he'd watched her, blushing, as the duvet fell from her shoulders.

...

Y/N wouldn't have minded the person knocking knowing that she'd spent the night with Sherlock Holmes. In fact, she wanted them to know, despite her actually having no idea who it even was that was behind the door. She had just slept with the man she loves for the first time, and was---despite her sorrow at everything else---in that mindset where one wants to should their good fortune from the rooftops.

However, Sherlock clearly wasn't and didn't want anyone to know, or he would have answered the incessant knocking, shamelessly, himself. So, after tugging on some pyjamas from her suitcase, Y/N opened the door a mere crack, blocking her room from view by wedging her body between the door and its jamb.

The person who had knocked was John, and his shoulders slumped in relief at the sight of her. "Oh, thank God you're here. We thought you'd been kidnapped. The guys cleaning up after the party brought us these; you and Sherlock left your phones and stuff at your table last night." He handed their belongings over and Y/N took them, making sure to replace her hand that had been holding the door half-closed with one of her feet. 

John didn't seem to have seen Y/N and Sherlock kissing, Y/N noted, because he probably would have mentioned it by now. And he definitely doesn't know that they'd left together. Y/N wondered if Sherlock would tell John later---mates gossiping over chicks they'd scored---then laughed at herself. Of course he wouldn't. For some reason Y/N knew that---despite being hazy about everything else---she and Sherlock had an unspoken, mutual understanding. What they'd shared may well have been a fling, or however he saw it, but it had definitely not been a _fling_ fling _._ It hadn't bean cheap, it had meant something to him, his shyness had shown her that. He wouldn't tarnish the memory of his first time by recounting it to friends for street cred. He's not like that, even if he has turned out to be the kind of person that is okay with no-strings arrangments. 

"Thank you," she said in confusion more than anything else. She'd left her things in a room crowded with people she didn't know? Now that John had mentioned it, Y/N realised she hadn't given her phone a passing thought since she last used it. Sherlock has a way of doing that; wiping all that is normal and mundane about life from your brain. At least, he does to her. "I'll see that Sherlock gets his."

John still looked concerned. "I actually went to his room first, but he didn't answer. Have you seen him?"

Y/N had to stop her lips curling into a smug smile at _how much_ she'd seen him. "Yeah, he said he was going to go for a walk." She didn't like lying, especially not to a man who is so clearly worried about his friend, but Y/N knew Sherlock probably wouldn't want her to tell the truth either. And she couldn't very well pretend she didn't know where he was; John would send out a search party, no doubt. It wasn't worth it.

Relaxing fully, now: "Ah, so he's okay, then?"

"He's fine, don't worry. We left the party last night to get some air, then realised we were tired so went to our rooms." Y/N heard fabric rustling behind her and felt herself tense, hoping John hadn't heard it too. She was eager, by now, to wrap up this conversation and close the door, to seal herself and Sherlock back off from the world and encapsulate them in their own for a little longer. Had Sherlock gotten out of bed, was that the noise she'd heard? Unless he was just getting more comfortable. Would he stay if she got back under the covers with him? Would he cuddle back up against her as if they hadn't been interrupted? Trying to hide the antsiness in her voice, Y/N gave John a smile. "I've only just woken up, to be honest, so I'm not really awake yet. I think I'll have a shower then get some breakfast. Thank you for bringing us our things."

John let her go understandingly, allowing Y/N to close the door, finally. 

Turning back to face her room, she bumped straight into Sherlock's chest; he was wearing his shirt from yesterday and was now shrugging on the matching jacket.

"You're leaving?" Y/N asked stupidly. She found it interesting how watching him put on his clothes made her feel completely opposite to how she'd done when she'd watched him remove them. Maybe because it was a symbol, a sign, that what they'd shared last night was truly over.

Sherlock must have slipped into the ensuite bathroom when Y/N had been talking to John because he'd already tamed his hair, and put his tie on straight. "Yes. Don't worry; most of the guests here were at the party so they'll be late up just as we were. I probably won't be seen. Not by anyone that matters."

Y/N wanted to say that she hadn't been worried, it was him that was worried, but held her tongue.

"I'm really hungry, for some reason, so I'm going to grab something to eat when I'm changed, then shall we go home?" He finished buttoning his jacket and opened the door, sidestepping around Y/N who was still just kind of staring at him. " I'll call a cab to come get us at half twelve, okay?"

 _'Despite him never having had a one night stand before, he really does know how to handle the morning after with clipped efficiency,'_ Y/N mentally muttered to herself. "Okay."

She faced her now empty room. _'At least he made the bed.'_

_..._

The cab Sherlock had arranged drew to a halt outside 221B at around four in the afternoon. There had been traffic; roads clogged by shiny black cars like hoards of beetles flowing between slabs of pavement. Their taxi valiantly fought its way into central London, however, so did all the other vehicles. The battle was long and drawn out and taking place at about five miles per hour.

Y/N had contemplated just vacating the cab and walking home. It was an understatement to say that she found the ride uncomfortable, and not just because it was unbelievably boring. ' _Usually,'_ she had thought, watching the traffic lights before them turn red just before they reached them---again, _'when someone has a one night stand they never see the person again. I, however, have to share a three-plus hour car ride with mine. And then an apartment.'_

Not that Y/N regretted any of it; what happened in room 32 will now forever be a shining jewel nestled in her memories. That didn't mean it sat comfortably with the logical part of her brain, though. Or the emotional part either, for that matter. Every time Y/N replayed a moment from that night---Sherlock helplessly arching his back with pleasure, Y/N's hands sliding over his upper leg, his lips scraping her skin---a voice in her head would remind her that he probably wasn't thinking the same thing. At least, not in the way Y/N was thinking about it. She was thinking 'I made the love of my life feel so fantastic last night' and he was probably thinking 'sex feels great'. She was replaying the way her chest had overflowed with affection at hearing him say her name. He was probably replaying what it felt like to have someone---anyone---slide his underwear from his hips.

Yes, if Sherlock's insides curled in on themselves as much as Y/N's now did every second they spent together, he definitely wasn't showing it. Y/N had found him eating brunch, as he said he'd be, in brooding silence at the hotel's dining area, peacefully lost in his own head like he so often was. Usual Sherlock behaviour.

Not like Y/N's behaviour, which she realised with a sigh, would take a little while longer to become anything even close to recognisably normal. When Sherlock had left her room he seemed to take some of Y/N's zeal with him because it took a surprising amount of self-discipline to nudge herself into packing her case and starting the day.

And even when she did finally manage to start it, she did it slowly, easing herself in by pacing back and forth in the hotel lobby a few times first, mentally debating with herself whether she should go and join Sherlock's table. Not to eat---God knows her stomach was tied in too tight a knot to do that---but as a way to make things go back to how they had been before. When she saw him as her friend and flatmate, and didn't have the sound of him groaning playing in her mind whenever she looked at his lips.

Eventually, Y/N had settled on fetching some tea from one of the machines at the table still set up as a breakfast buffet and took the seat opposite her flatmate. After much deliberation, she had reached the conclusion (and hoped) that acting normal would be the fastest way to, well, get back to normal---fake it 'til you make it, as it were.

Sherlock didn't seem to need to fake it. He'd smiled at Y/N genially as she'd sat down opposite him and started a casual conversation as if nine hours ago he hadn't been moaning to high heaven because she had been kissing his neck in a particular way. As time went on, he seemed to stray further and further from the cuddly, sleepy Sherlock he'd been this morning. The only evidence of the fact that he had had sex at all last night was a love-bite Y/N knew to be hiding below his clothes. He'd regained his self-assuredness, his confidence. He wasn't exactly cold to Y/N, but he wasn't treating her like a lover either. He was treating her like...well, like how he usually does; like his best friend. He's clearly back to his old self.

Y/N, however, only became more self-conscious as the day went on. The reality of last night became clearer with every passing minute, time sharpening it like an incriminating photograph being pulled into focus. She'd had a one night stand with her flatmate, whom she was head-over-heels in love with, and now had to pretend like it didn't mean anything? How was she supposed to do that? How do you act casually platonic with someone after sharing such an experience?

Despite it being an obvious challenge, Y/N knew she had to give it a bloody good go. She tried to match Sherlock's laid back attitude convincingly. She talked like she always did while he finished his meal, joined in with his games like she always did during the excruciatingly long car ride home. She ignored the feeling of his fingers brushing hers when he handed her her suitcase. She hid her blush as memories of his pretty body spread out below hers swept into her mind unexpectedly. She planned to go straight to her room and stay there for the rest of the evening as soon as they got inside. Then tomorrow she would work. Sherlock would probably have a case. They'd have dinner in the evening. Monday was Movie Night; they'd watch The Matrix, or A Fish Called Wanda, or something else Sherlock had been putting off because it was too mainstream.

That was her plan, that's how she'd deal with her...embarrassment? Heartache? She would make a few new memories with him, that's all she had to do, Y/N told herself. She just had to get her brain to see him as a friend again rather than a---whatever he'd been that night.

But she didn't want to. Last night had been a taster of what being romantically attached to Sherlock Holmes would entail. It entailed gentle touches and loving caresses and honest communication, and, of course, fiery fervent hunger. Their bodies, their minds, seemed to go together like caesium and water, a violently passionate explosion, and she had liked it. Hell, she had _loved_ it.

Sherlock had seemed to love it too, which is what Y/N was finding so confusing. The way he'd looked at her, the way he'd trusted her---put himself literally and metaphorically in her hands---had seemed so genuine that Y/N had almost forgotten they weren't actually already married with three children. His emotion, his vulnerability, had seemed so open, so bare and raw that it was, quite frankly, a shock when he'd left her room. Sherlock's immediate withdrawal from Y/N's presence this morning doused the reaction she had felt between them like a bucket of ice water being lazily thrown over an inconvenient flame. He'd plucked up any sentiments he'd dropped the same way he'd collected his scattered clothes, packing away his sensual side the same way he'd later pack away the suit he wore at the wedding.

 _'It was just a one night stand,'_ Y/N thought, _'how could I have been so stupid to think it was more?'_

...

Y/N's plan to scurry off to her room as soon as Sherlock had withdrawn the key from the lock went perfectly, and it was there that she stayed until she realised it was almost past dinner time. Her body told her rather than her clock, her digestive system having unknotted itself during her time alone, and now feeling painfully empty. Not just because she hadn't eaten properly since yesterday but because worms of disappointment had burrowed through her soul, leaving holes that couldn't be filled with physical matter.

She hadn't seen Sherlock since they'd got home, so wasn't aware that he'd spent his time moving from room to room, not really sure what to do with himself. His watch's stubby hour hand eventually dragged itself to a time that Sherlock deemed acceptable for dinner, and he set about making some as something to do. He didn't know what Y/N wanted to eat but he knew what _he_ wanted; something warm and filling and soothing, so he made macaroni and cheese. Once it was done he stared at the two bowls, wishing it had taken a bit longer, or the process had been more complicated. But it hadn't been, and the meal's preparation was complete, so he set them on the table and was about to call Y/N downstairs when all of a sudden there she was.

Y/N had let her stomach drag her from her room and to the kitchen, but ignored it when she got there and saw Sherlock making something. Seeing that he, too, had been brought there for the same reason, at the same time, caused a wave of that feeling again, that they were somehow in sync, connected although rooms apart, and she couldn't help smiling as she leaned on the door jamb to watch him. 

People are always most interesting to admire when they don't know they have an audience, and Sherlock is no exception. He has a habit of exposing his true state of mind whilst he thinks others are not around, and Y/N likes to catch him at these times, get to know him a little better without him even realising. 

She also just likes to...see what he gets up to. Because it's funny, or cute, and always endearing. Sometimes he hums tunes while he cooks, or puts the radio on and sings along, his love for music getting the better of him. Y/N was waiting for him to do that, now. Waiting for him to turn on the radio, hoping he'd start stirring whatever was in the pan he had over the hob in tune to Martika's Kitchen---or something---as Y/N had once caught him doing. 

But he didn't. 

Methodologically, he laid out two bowls to serve what he'd made into, and when he did Y/N saw what it was her smile faded. 

She loved mac 'n' cheese, and Sherlock was one of the best makers of it in the whole of England (well, Y/N thought so) but she'd only seen him eat it twice before; that winter he'd had a really bad cold, and that time his mother called to inform him that one of his uncles had died.

"What's wrong?" Y/N asked, coming into the room properly, already wanting to bundle her friend up in her arms and kiss the top of his head until whatever was causing him to crave comfort food was forgotten. She was so focused on Sherlock, now, that she wasn't even aware that her awkwardness, all of a sudden, had been cured. Cured, eradicated, erased, washed away by one of those waves of love for him she kept experiencing.

Sherlock seemed to have been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed her come in. "Nothing. Why do you ask?" he said as they sat down in their normal seats. They were back to normal already, and Y/N was so distracted by concern that she didn't even notice.

"You make macaroni and cheese when you're sad."

Something flickered behind Sherlock's eyes but it had been too fleeting for Y/N to register what it had been. Turning his gaze down to watch his fork try to stab a piece of pasta, Sherlock said, shrugging: "I just felt like something with cheese in it."

Y/N didn't believe it for a second. "You're lying."

He rolled his eyes and Y/N would have laughed at his childish behaviour had she not been anxious for his wellness. 

"Fine, fine, I won't press you. Thank you for cooking for me."

He creased his eyebrows, looking nearly convincingly baffled. Nearly. 

They were _almost_ back to normal.

Y/N placed her hand over his on the table. This morning that would have caused her cheeks to heat to uncomfortable degrees, but now she didn't even register the tingling sensations. He was her best friend, her love, even if he didn't see her in the same way. "If something is bothering you, Sherlock, I'll help you solve it. You know that, right?"

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to reassure Y/N that everything was, in fact, fine, his phone buzzed on the counter.

"What was that?" she asked, forgetting to remind herself not to be nosy. Like a protective mother hen, Y/N now saw everything as a possible threat. Was whoever was messaging him the reason for her the macaroni and cheese? Y/N sighed inwardly, almost laughing at herself. Her metaphorical hackles were raised, and she didn't really---when she thought about it---have any proper reason for them to be. Her friend was probably eating Macaroni and cheese because he just...liked macaroni and cheese. 

Tapping the screen to silence the notification, Sherlock moved his food around his bowl, releasing some of the heat from the centre in a flurry of steam. "I put some clothes in the washer-dryer downstairs, that was the timer telling me the cycle has ended."

"Oh." Y/N wilted a little. Distressing texts being the thing that was bothering him would have made fixing the problem for him easier---and, in Y/N's mind, the faster everything was rosy again for the one she adored the better. If it had been an ordinary text it would have probably been enough to reassure her that she'd been mistaken; he wasn't hiding something, he wasn't upset; her empathy, her intuition, had been wrong. But the fact that he'd done washing so late in the evening only raised more questions. Was Sherlock really so desperate for something to distract his mind that he'd go down to the dingy little utility room and complete such a mundane task?

Sherlock clearly wasn't willing to talk about what it, was ever it was, so Y/N decided to try direct his attention away from it instead, although she wasn't sure what with. Her first thought was to ask him where he learned to dance so well; but that would mean thinking about what had happened after that, which Y/N knew he probably had no interest in doing.

Y/N had been trying to think of something to say for so long that Sherlock was putting his now-empty bowl by the sink. He reached for the tap but Y/N stopped him: "I'll wash up, seeing as you cooked," she offered in what she hoped was a cheerful tone. She hoped he'd stay with her while she did, maybe offer to dry the things once she'd washed them; she wanted to spend some more time with him before they went to their separate rooms for bed. She wanted to get to the root of whatever was clouding his pretty eyes. She hadn't noticed them this morning, too blinded by her own clouds, but now that she thought about it they had definitely been there since he'd had brunch. Something was subtle and hidden under his comfortable old clock of cool confidence, hidden so well only four people in the whole world would be able to find it. Three of them shared his DNA, and the other was now putting her empty bowl in the sink, watching her flatmate leave the room.

She called over to him: "Where are you going?" as he neared the apartment door, her heart jumping slightly at the thought that he was mysteriously vacating the apartment at night.

He chuckled in what could easily be mistaken for fondly at her blatant concern. "I'm getting my laundry from the utility room."

Y/N's cheeks flushed slightly. "Oh. Okay."

"Really, I'm fine, Y/N." 

...  
  


Y/N stood in the middle of the kitchen, wiping soap suds from her hands with the tea towel she'd used to dry the crockery from dinner. At some point, while she'd been washing up, Sherlock must have snuck back into the flat and to his room, because she heard him opening the chest of draws that stood along the wall near his door. She used the word 'snuck' because she hadn't seen him go by---which wasn't surprising, seeing as she'd been facing the sink---but she hadn't heard him either, even with their decrepit old floorboards. So he _had_ snuck. 

If someone was to take a good long look at Y/N, right now, and guess what she was feeling, they'd probably say she seemed 'lost'---and they wouldn't be entirely wrong. She was kind of lost, lost in thought, lost in feelings and memories and her own head. Usually, it wouldn't bother her that Sherlock had 'snuck', but today it did. Maybe because he'd chosen macaroni and cheese for dinner. Maybe because he doesn't usually sneak, but today he'd done it three times; out of the hotel room they'd shared, out of the flat, then back into it again. 

And every time he did, Y/N hadn't chased after him, hadn't asked him _why_ he'd snuck, but this time she would, she decided. You can always tell when your best-friend-in-all-the-world is acting differently, you always _know_ somethings up, and it _always_ bothers you. Sherlock had lied when he'd said he was fine, Y/N had realised as she'd scraped hardened cheese off one of their bowls with her fingernail. And he'd been lying this morning when he acted like his usual self at breakfast, in the cab, as he unlocked the flat. The question was why. What was he hiding, and why was he hiding it from her? No secrets. That was their unspoken agreement. It was unspoken but that didn't make his violation of it any less alarming.

...

Sherlock's door is open when Y/N goes to his room, which she took as a good sign. If it was closed and locked, then she would have become _properly_ worried. 

He's sorting his socks into his chest of draws, the laundry basket empty by his feet. He's spread them all out on top of the chest, the sock draw hanging open. Y/N knows he keeps his socks in specific rows and has to stop her lips from twitching into a smile at the memory of him once explaining them to her.

"Hey," she gives his door jamb a little knock. "Want some help?"

He offers her a small grateful smile. Grateful for helping him or grateful for not calling him strange, she wasn't sure. "Okay. Thank you." 

Sherlock watched her as she selects two socks, pairing them and putting them in their correct place, then, satisfied she knows what she's doing, asks: "Don't you have anything better to do?" There's a hint of teasing in that remark, in the glint of his eyes as he gives her a sideways smirk. 

"I don't know. I just...wanted to hang out." Y/N's brow almost furrowed in confusion at how alien those words felt rolling off her toung. _'Hang_ _out'_. Sherlock and Y/N don't 'hang out' because they're usually already in the same place. 'Hanging out' is scheduling a location and time to meet, to be together, which they never do. They've never had to do, now that Y/N thought about it. She never has to invite Sherlock to spend time with her because he's usually already there. And if he's not, she knows where he'll be. He'll be curled up reading in his favorite chair. He'll be in the kitchen, lighting the various things he can find around the flat on fire and calling it 'science'. He'll be on the sofa thinking, staring at scraps of paper pinned to the wall, pouring over today's newspaper, raiding the cupboards for biscuits. He's like a constant, ever-present force in her life, the middle point on a map. If home was a graph he'd be the centre point.

Suddenly Y/N realised something and it hit her like a ton of bricks. She'd felt strange today, different, as if someone had broken into the apartment and moved all the furniture three centimetres to the left. She'd put it down to being the after-effects of a one night stand. Spending the night, no strings attached, with her best friend---the man she was secretly in love with---and lived with, was bound to stir up some kind of emotional storm, right? She'd put her discomfiture down to embarrassment, to self-consciousness, to the sorrow caused by unrequited love.

But it wasn't that, it wasn't any of it.

Well, maybe it was _some_ of it, but, mainly, the reason everything today had felt slightly out of wack was the simple fact that...Sherlock hadn't been there.

He'd been there, in the hotel's dining room, in the cab, in the flat, but he'd not really been... _there_ . Immediately when they'd got home he'd gone MIA, almost as if...well as if as soon as he'd gotten the opportunity to be alone he'd taken it. He'd been keeping to himself, or rather, keeping himself _inside_ himself; usually, he oozes personality, rich with eccentricities, but today it was as if he'd kept all that in a metaphorical box, hugging it to his chest like Gollum with The Ring. He'd been quiet. Private.

Which is odd, Y/N thought, because he's usually the most open person Y/N knew.

Y/N always has to hold in a sarcastic laugh when someone calls Sherlock Holmes 'private'. 'You try flat sharing with him,' she'd say, finding their obvious surprise amusing. He often walks around in nothing but a bedsheet (and Y/N was pretty sure the bedsheet was only there to avoid sexual harassment lawsuits), he says whatever's on his mind without thinking it through first, and he doesn't give a toss about anyone's opinion of him.

Not to mention: he responds to simple kindness like a flower does to the sun. All you needed to do to get Sherlock to talk your ear off about his latest interest was offer him an ear to talk off.

When he and Y/N had met, he had the hesitancy of someone that had been pushed away many times before, been _left_ many times before, and he clearly didn't want Y/N to become one of those times. He'd tentatively contributed to their conversation, shyly dropping pieces of information about himself for her to pick up. If she wanted to. Y/N had picked them up, because obviously, and he'd not shut up since.

No longer did he 'drop pieces' of information, no, now he (metaphorically, of course) eagerly pushed bundles of his thoughts, feelings, interests, into Y/N's arms excitedly, almost bowling her over with his undiluted, pure Sherlock-isms.

And she loved it.

She was the first person that came to mind when he had news to share. She was the one he'd complain to if something was irking him. She was the one he'd ramble at until he _himself_ wasn't even sure the things he was uttering were making sense. And there Y/N would always be. Accepted anything he wanted to talk about with open arms, finding everything he had to say fascinating, riveting, _brilliant_. There she'd always be, loving the joy that lit up his eyes every time he realised she _wanted_ to listen---that _someone_ _wanted_ _to_ _listen_.

But today he'd been...normal. _Too_ normal. No gunshots, no explosions, no fire alarms, no rants at the television, no odd conversations, no inside jokes, no anything.

If she hadn't have come down to dinner would he have even called her to the table? Or would he have eaten his own and left hers in the microwave for her to find later?

 _'It's only been a day,'_ Y/N mentally asserted herself. _'One day of strange behaviour doesn't mean anything.'_ "You've been very quiet. I haven't seen you since we got home." She gave him a smile, hoping it made it seem like just a passing remark, a conversation starter. 

Sounding unexpectedly curt: "Maybe that's because you holed yourself up in your room all day."

Y/N didn't know what to say to that. She almost opened her mouth to answer indignantly: 'well that never usually stops you', because it's true, it doesn't. They've spent many hours reading, watching films, or just talking together in one of their bedrooms because the other was bored and had sought them out like a dog nudging a tennis ball into its owner's lap.

They stood in silence, slowly working their way through Sherlock's pile of socks. Despite each pair having characteristics that earned them a place in their assigned compartment, those characteristics were extremely subtle. Every single one looked the same to the untrained eye; they were all black, or grey, or so grey they appeared black.

Y/N had started to chew her lip three sock pairs ago. She couldn't help but wonder...why hadn't Sherlock dragged her downstairs at some point today to show her how pretty Digestive crumbs looked under his microscope? Why hadn't she heard the sound of his masterful use of the violin drifting up the stairs? How can he just stand there sorting socks with someone he'd just had the most amazing night of his life with?

Had it been the most amazing night of his life? Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. Keeping her eyes fixed on the two socks she was trying to tell apart, Y/N said quietly:

"I just realised...I never asked you if you enjoyed it." She doesn't need to specify what she's talking about because it's obvious he knows; his shoulders tensing, the way he faltered slightly, like a computer-generated image glitching, had given it away. 

The fact that he clearly hadn't forgotten that they'd slept together is a good sign, Y/N decided. Boldly, she continued, because she had to know: "So...did you? Enjoy it?"

  
  


Sherlock stayed silent for a long time, and Y/N wondered if he was going to answer at all. Maybe he's too shy, too English to talk about sex. She didn't even dare consider the fact that he wasn't answering because he'd hated it and was trying to spare her feelings. _'He couldn't have hated it,'_ She thought, ' _Unless he's a really good actor.'_ Remembering the way her touch had run over things that made him hiss and arch beneath her: _'He must have enjoyed it, at least a bit'._

Just when she thought he was never going to say anything:

"More than you can possibly imagine."

Y/N's lips twitched into a smile. _'He's not shy, he just couldn't find the right words to sum it up,'_ Y/N mentally chuckled to herself, a little swell of pride blooming in her chest at the thought that if someone was to look through Sherlock's memories they'd come across that night, that spike of joy, and she'd be able to say ' _that was me. I did that'._

Sherlock's shoulders weren't squared anymore, the fabric of his shirt going loose again as his muscles relaxed. Like a weight had been lifted from his back and he suddenly felt free from it, lighter.

...Had he just wanted to talk about it? That night? Y/N's smile grew into a smirk; _'Maybe that's what was bothering him. He'd just experienced the most amazing feeling in his life and he thought he wasn't allowed to talk to anyone about it.'_

"Did you?"

Y/N dragged her mind back to reality to see that Sherlock had turned to her, now, concerned, as if he'd been itching to ask her all day long. He probably had. He was so eager for the answer that he'd forgotten his still-unsorted pile of socks completely. "I know it was my first time so I didn't really know...you know. But you didn't...hate it, did you?"

Y/N laughed out loud now at Sherlock's expression, so vulnerable, his whole demeanour laced with hesitancy. Her heart swelled with love for him and it made her giddy. He wants to talk about it so they are going to _talk_ _about_ _it_. Taking the sock from him and matching it with the one she'd been holding, "No, of course not. How could you even ask that? It was amazing, that whole night was amazing. _You_ were amazing."

He flushed pink.

"You were gentle and generous and...the most beautiful man I've ever seen. You clearly cared about my pleasure, maybe even more than your own." A memory swamped her mind, filling it like warm syrup, and she was beaming without realising. "Some people would have just...you know. Skipped to the end, focused wholly on themself. Not you, though." Remembering the sensual trail of kisses he'd drawn down her whole body. The way he'd given each centimetre of her skin his undivided attention, using her reaction to find the places she especially liked, learning her body. "You took your time. That night with you was the best night I've ever had." She wasn't even lying. "Getting to touch you, feeling you touching me, it was better than I dreamed." That last part had slipped out by accident and Y/N flushed up to her ears. That had been too close. Too close to her secret love for him and too close to sounding creepy.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind, though. If he was sitting in a seat he'd be perched on the edge of it. "Really?" The corner of his perfectly biteable lips were tugged into a more than smug smirk and he bashfully peeked at Y/N through his fringe. "And...you dreamed of making love to me?"

Why did hearing him call it that send shivers coursing through every nerve? "Yes." What's the point in denying it?

He saw her blushing and said gently, his smugness being replaced with bashful sincerity. "Don't feel bad. I...I imagined it too."

Heart missing a beat, like when you save yourself just in time from falling down the stairs. Trying to hide it, Y/N placed the last of the sock pairs into their correct place. Sherlock had imagined it too? She found herself wishing there were more socks to sort. They'd given her hands something to do, her gaze a place to rest that wasn't on her friend. She didn't want to scorch him with the laser beam that was all of her attention. She didn't want to scare him away. She wanted him to keep talking.

Casually, as casually as she could muster: "You did?"

"Yes." Sherlock took a pile of his shirts from the laundry basket and started hanging them up in his wardrobe. Waiting until his face was sort-of-hidden in the cupboard: "I imagined you touching me. Accidentally. Like, my brain would just suddenly put images in my head." It took him a little while to get up enough courage to say: "They were wonderful, so wonderful I felt it was worth seeing if you'd be okay with me maybe kissing you." He took another shirt from the pile, arranged it neatly on a hanger then slotted it amongst its peers. "And then not only did you kiss me, you kissed all of me---took me to places emotionally and physically that I never thought I'd get to go." He turned back to face Y/N, then, a wistful look swirling about his pretty eyes.

But he looked melancholy rather than nostalgic as he gave Y/N a grateful smile.

"Thank you."

Y/N had to study his face for a second to read his emotions because his tone of voice had confused her. He seemed...sad. Why does he seem sad? He's talking about his first kiss, his first time with a woman, and here he is looking like a flower weighed down by heavy droplets of rain. What could Y/N say to comfort him? How is she supposed to comfort him if she doesn't even know what the problem is? If he refuses to even acknowledge that there is one?

Another idea occurred to Y/N. A cheap idea, but an idea all the same. It would make him smile. It would raise his spirits. His soulful expression would be replaced with eyes crossed with pleasure.

But the question was, would Y/N want to do that again? It had felt absolutely brilliant, completely fantastic and yet...watching Sherlock leave her room this morning had almost made all of that not worth it. Could she really go through that again just because she wanted to cheer him up?

Well, not _just_ because she wanted to cheer him up. It had _almost_ made it not worth it. _Almost._

Y/N stepped closer to Sherlock, taking some of the front of his shirt and running the smooth fabric between her finger and thumb. She could see Sherlock's chest freeze as he stopped breathing. She'd noticed that recently; how the steady rhythm of his respiration falters whenever she gets particularly close.

Sherlock watched Y/N with curious eyes, his hands remaining stiffly at his sides. 

Her voice a low murmur: "You know...we could do it again if you like. If you really enjoyed it that much, if you had as much fun as I did---"

He nudged her away. "No, thank you."

Y/N blinked. That was, obviously, not how she had been expecting those next few seconds to go. The blood in her cheeks rose to uncomfortable temperatures, from embarrassment but also from confusion.

He'd liked it, yes?

He was fine with one night stands, yes?

Stepping backwards, out of respect, "Wait, what? Why not?"

The laundry basket was empty now so there was no real reason for them to be standing here like this, anymore. Well, Sherlock had a reason; it was his room. Y/N didn't, and with every passing second, she began to feel more and more like someone who was very much in the wrong place. Like how you feel when you're around a friend's house and they start arguing with their parents in front of you.

It didn't help that Sherlock's expression was set in a firm frown. "Because for me it wasn't _fun_." He put air quotes around 'fun' as if the word disgusted him, and Y/N felt her stomach plummet to the floor. "For me, it was...staggering. Life-changing. Breathtaking. It was...it sounds stupid, I know, but it was the best experience of my life and it meant something. It was meaningful, even if it wasn't for you."

 _'Oh_ ,' Y/N thought as the pieces slotted together, ' _So he_ doesn't _like one night stands?'_

"But for me it _was_ meaningful---"

Sherlock cut her off, shaking his head, looking like he'd very much like to drop the conversation now. However, Y/N was still staring at him, baffled and clearly craving an explanation so he held onto it, reluctantly: "Not in the same way. When you gave me permission to touch you, when you said you _wanted_ me to touch you...I thought I had everything a man could ever want. But then," he wilted damply "...you went away."

Y/N's brow furrowed in a deep rift of confusion. Her brain was so _full_ of confusion that his compliments barely sank in. "I didn't go away! _You're_ the one that left _my_ room!"

"I left because you'd already _left me._ We woke up and you didn't mention the previous night at all, didn't say anything about our kiss, about any of it. You'd left me, the Y/N I had danced with was gone and she hasn't come back. I'd only want to...do that again with that Y/N." It had spilt out in a rush, any hesitancy Sherlock had felt before clearly overridden by the need to be heard, to be understood.

But Y/N hadn't understood, not any of it. Her brow hadn't unfurrowed yet. If anything, she was now even more baffled than before. "No, I was the same Y/N when I woke up as the Y/N I'd been when I fell asleep in your arms. I didn't go anywhere---"

"Yes, I realised that." Evidently, Sherlock's miniature rant's momentum was pittering out and he ran a hand through his hair, saying, slower and quieter, now: "What I mean is: I think the you I saw at the wedding was all in my head, because I wanted to believe she existed."

"What are you talking about?"

Impatiently: "The Y/N who wanted to kiss me. Me, as in...my personality, who I am as a person not just my appearance. The Y/N who wanted to kiss _me_. I think I was just imagining her. I realised it when we woke up and you were acting like it was just a fling. The Y/N I kissed had disappeared because I realised she'd never really been with me at all."

His raw emotion, the things he was saying and the tone in which he said them grated against some part of Y/N's heart, making it ache. Sherlock thought she didn't like him for who he is. His whole life he'd been surrounded by people that leave, then he thinks he finally found someone who's going to stay, and they leave him too.

Y/N stepped closer to him, putting her hands on his chest, planting herself before him. She wished she could send her love for him from her chest, down her arms, through her hands and into his shirt-covered skin. "Yes, she had. The Y/N that wants to kiss you was with you then and is right here with you now, still."

"No, you don't understand." He stepped back, Y/N's palms cold without the solid warmth of Sherlock's body beneath them. "I like you, Y/N. As in, I really like you. I have for a while now. And...the way you touched me...I kind of started to hope that it meant you... felt the same way. I never would have even wanted to go to bed with anyone I didn't...love." His eyes are fixed on the patch of the floor by Y/N's feet. He uttered the last word quietly, so quiet he probably hoped Y/N hadn't heard.

But she had.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock brought his head up to meet Y/N's eyes and held them with his own. "I wouldn't feel safe doing that with anyone I hadn't fallen for. And I think when we were dancing...my brain wanted you to love me so badly that it made up a version of you that did." He sighed deeply as if someone had let him free from ropes that had been restraining him too tightly. He could finally breathe properly again. He must like that freedom because he continued: 

"When we woke up, I kept thinking you'd tell me what last night meant. I kept hoping you'd tell me you'd felt it too, when our hearts had beaten in unison, when we'd held each other as our bodies fell over that pique of pleasure at exactly the same moment."

At the memory, some of that light returned to his pale eyes, sparked behind them like a weak flame finding one last piece of fuel it hadn't yet consumed. Like a lantern, the brightness shone through his irises, lightning them up from within, turning them that selcouth colour somewhere between lime green and robin's egg blue. "But you didn't." The flame flickered and died, casting them back to puddle-grey. "I would have said something, I got close, but then I realised why you probably hadn't said anything; you didn't care as much about it as I did. You saw it as just a fling, and I saw it as more. I didn't want to ask for what I craved, I didn't want to beg you for more than you were willing to give."

Y/N was just staring at him, and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze then his expression hardened. Not at Y/N, but at himself, because he looked away, letting his head hang like a child who knew they'd done something wrong.

"So...thank you for offering, but no. I don't want to do it again. Please forget I said anything. It's my fault, I shouldn't have complicated things."

He took the empty laundry basket, plucking it hurriedly up by one handle and started a brisk walk towards his bedroom door but Y/N caught his arm, stopping him. He looked at her hand gently holding his wrist, kept his eyes fixed on it as if he still couldn't believe she was touching him, even though she'd touched him lots more than that not so long ago. It still made his cheekbones flush pink. It still made his chest fall still as the breath caught in his throat.

"You should have asked me."

"What?"

Y/N didn't let him go. He's so much bigger than her, so much stronger, he could easily just pull himself free.

But he didn't. He just watched her.

"You should have asked me. This morning, what it meant. You should have asked me if I cared."

The magic of her touch must have worn off by now because Sherlock just looked tired. "You have to remember: I've never been with anyone before, Y/N."

She remembered. _God_ , how she remembered. She remembered his shyness, how when she gave him his first kiss---as she'd coaxed his mouth open enough to taste him---the shaky edge of a moan pushed up from his lungs. She remembered the look of almost comical surprise that had come over his face at the new dimension of feeling he'd acquired the first time he felt Y/N run the pad of her thumb over his nipple. She remembered how his touch starved body clamoured for her caresses, his flesh so sensitive, so responsive, his reactions so unguarded as he melted at every simple touch.

Sherlock was still talking, and it required all Y/N's strength to ignore the pleasing memories sliding past her mind's eye. "I've never had a one night stand---which you seemed to think it was. I didn't know that talking about what you'd done was _allowed_."

That blush was back, his confidence dipping suddenly as he said: "And it occurred to me, the next morning, that what I'd felt could have just been the way everyone felt during sex. It might not have been special at all, you may have felt it too but paid it no attention because that's just...what making love is like. I didn't know how one night stands work. Hell, I didn't even know how to ask if I could kiss you when we were dancing. You didn't mention feeling so much joy your heart could burst when we saw each other naked for the first time, so I didn't mention it either. What would have been the point anyway? If you had felt what I'd felt you would have said something."

  
...

Quietly: "No, I wouldn't, because I didn't want to scare you away."

Sherlock stared at her fixedly, and said in a measured tone: "'Wouldn't or 'didn't'?"

"Didn't. I _didn't_ say anything because I _didn't_ want to scare you away." Y/N was still holding one of his wrists and gave his arm a little shake in helpless agitation. "God, Sherlock, I felt so much love for you that night I thought I was going to pass out from it. I still do, right now. I did before you kissed me, I did before the wedding, I did weeks ago because, well, Jesus, Sherlock, how could anyone _not_ fall for you?"

He was so still, eyes wide and unblinking, that if it wasn't for the frantic pulse flurrying under her fingertips Y/N would have worried he was dead.

"You danced with the Y/N who wanted to kiss you, you made love to the Y/N who wanted to kiss you, you woke up with, ate brunch with, went home with the Y/N who wanted--- _wants_ \---to kiss you. I thought _you_ saw it as just a fling, you aloof fool, you. You said nothing so I said nothing, I thought you were just...I don't know, using me or something. But we hadn't specified that it meant something so I had no right to be upset with you when I thought you'd finished with me."

Moving for the first time since Y/N had started talking, Sherlock distractedly let the laundry basket fall to his feet and took the side of her face in his now-free hand, his expression softening as he tenderly cupped her jawline. A swell of sadness had turned his grey eyes a delicate, damp, pastel blue and Y/N wondered for a horrible second if he was about to cry. "Don't. Don't say it like that. Don't talk about it like that, I can't believe you thought I'd ever..." his voice trailed off, not being able to bring himself to say the word 'use', and Y/N realised that touching her hadn't been something Sherlock had meant to do because he hastily retracted his hand.

' _You're focusing on the wrong part,'_ Y/N wanted to say. She wanted to stand on the upside-down laundry basket so she'd be tall enough to properly grab his shoulders and give them a good shake. She very nearly did, but then they probably would have had to buy a new laundry basket. 

And there was no need. Sherlock's expression had broken out into a restrained smile, hesitant, hopeful elation waiting for the go-ahead to brighten his eyes. The struggle between belief and disbelief brought a pained tautness to his voice: "You've fallen for me?"

"More than you could possibly imagine."

The use of his own line, or maybe simply at what it meant, made Sherlock...beam? Was that word strong enough? Is it accurate to say someone is beaming when actually they are doing way more than that, their whole being glowing with so much elation it could power the whole of London and maybe half of Canterbury? He brought his other hand to rest on the back of Y/N's neck, pushing it up to tangle his fingers in her hair as if he needed to touch some part of her, any part. Breathless, his gaze flicking from Y/N's eyes to her lips as he stared searchingly down at her face:

"But, at the hotel, when John gave us our phones, you didn't want him to see me, to see we'd---"

Y/N had felt like she was invading his space a few seconds ago, but now, so close to his body, she was reminded of how perfectly they slotted together, how every part of him seemed to be designed specifically for every part of her, and that sense of being an imposter was replaced by an instinctual, thrumming sense of belonging. "It was all a misunderstanding, a stupid misunderstanding." She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him down to press kisses to any part of his skin she could find.

He took this as permission to tug her into a proper embrace, gathering her closer, crushing her against him as he took her offering with passionate hunger.

"I asked you to get the door and you said---" Y/N was cut off by Sherlock releasing her, pulling out of the hug enough to kiss her forehead, over her nose, down her chin, stopping to glance at her eyes apologetically:

"I said the person would know we'd spent the night together if I was the one to answer the door. I figured that one way for me to tell if last night had meant anything to you was to see how you would react to that prospect. I figured you'd either say you didn't care if they knew, and tell me to answer it, or you'd do what you did and get it yourself. And then you hid me from view with the door I thought---"

"You thought _wrong_." She held the sides of his face, furrowing her brows at him. "Why didn't you ask me what it meant? I know you thought that's what one night stands were like, but why didn't you ask while we were kissing, before you thought it was a one night stand? Why did you have to be so calculating?"

Sherlock's gaze broke contact with her piercing eyes, his hands at her waist running a thumb anxiously over her hip, his lips pressed into a line. Y/N could feel a tension building in her chest at what he'd say and let her hands fall to her sides. Would dating Sherlock Holmes be like that? Him being too proud to simply converse, to talk when something's on his mind? Him testing her, gauging her emotions and intentions via intricate social experiments and exams?

Was he really that cold---?

In a small voice, so uncharacteristically small: "I was scared of a verbal rejection."

No, he's not cold. He's the complete opposite. He's warm, so alive and full of feelings he doesn't know what to do with them apart from build protective walls around them, keep them safe behind booby traps and tripwires.

Y/N's jaw slackened, her mouth falling open slightly. Every cog in her brain had suddenly ground to a halt, gotten stuck, jammed by that one, tiny, overwhelmingly innocent string of words. Her body had started to work on its own, wanting to pull him into a cuddle, cradle his face as she kisses him until he's dizzy, utter that she loves him until _she's_ dizzy---her limbs wanted to do so many things at once that they sort of remained stuck, stationary, unable to complete even one.

That had been inexplicably, undeniably, atypically, adorable.

Sherlock must have noted her stunned expression but not known what to make of it because he filled his lungs with fresh oxygen and elaborated:

"I wanted to ask you. I came close, when you were unlocking the door to your hotel room I nearly blurted it out then. But that would have meant confessing my feelings for you. What if you would have said you don't return my love? What if you'd gotten uncomfortable and pushed me away, the one person I care about most in all this world? I wouldn't have been able to... I've never loved someone before. Not like this. He scratched behind his head, a shy, regretful smile curving the corner of his mouth. "And...I didn't want to ruin---you know---the mood, or anything. If you would have kicked me out of your hotel room we wouldn't have got to...and I really wanted to do that with you. So I...said nothing." Meeting Y/N's eyes, he took his lower lip in his teeth and Y/N ran her thumb over his mouth, freeing it.

She gave him a kind smile. "I really wanted to do that with you too."

He huffed a laugh. "You didn't act like it. Not until yesterday."

Y/N's brow was still furrowed with bewilderment. "I _did_. I tried not to but I did, I couldn't help it. Every time you so much as looked at me I quaked like a love-sick teenager. Didn't you notice?"

Sherlock looked boyishly pleased, a pink sprinkling of a blush spreading across his cheekbones. "No. I guess I was too distracted trying to hide my own love-sick-teenager-isms."

They both chuckled, not really because it was funny but in relief. In that kind of relief where everything has gone back to normal, maybe even an improved version of normal. That kind of relief where their nerves can finally loosen after too long of standing as taut as bowstrings.

Despite their new knowledge, that they loved each other, that they wanted to touch each other, neither one moved to do so. So much had changed in such a short space of time it was as if their brains were taking a minute to re-boot, to catch up. That, or they were both, for some strange reason afraid to make the next move. 

_'There's nothing to be afraid of,'_ Y/N mentally scolded herself. _'Being afraid is what got us into this mess in the first place.'_ She couldn't take it anymore, and said: "Well, what do we do now?"

Looking as though he was about to bite his lip again, but decided against it, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders instead. "I don't know. Are we...? I mean, do you want to---"

"Do it again?"

Sherlock went crimson, his eyes widening and he sputtered: "I was actually going to say 'do you want to go out to dinner tomorrow?'."

A hot flush crawled it's fingers up the back of Y/N's neck, although it was unjust. He didn't look uncomfortable at her suggestion, he looked elated. Elated and endearingly bashful.

"But I like your suggestion more. So yes please."

...

It had only been one day since Y/N had made Sherlock do that groaning sound she was so fond of, and yet she'd already forgotten just how delicious that helpless purr of ecstasy felt rolling into her ears, vibrating against her lips as she stifled it with her mouth. She'd daydreamed about it all day, pretty much, and yet her imagined versions never quite captured the full effect it had on her body, how it wrapped around every nerve, exciting things within her she'd never even known were there.

Y/N doesn't know why her flatmate has such an effect on her, and even now while she stares down at him sprawled on her mattress, inquisitive eyes gazing wondrously up at her, she still can't put her finger on it.

Maybe because Sherlock is _incredibly_ attractive. His dark curls falling about the pillow. His lithe, powerful, alabaster body shifting under hers as she touches places---does things---that makes him roll back his eyes and moan. His soft, perfectly curved lips parting to do so, giving Y/N glances at his white teeth and pink tongue.

Maybe because he's extraordinary and thus her mind and body have some kind of fascination with him.

Or maybe, simply, she loves him.

She tried to show him this with every touch she gave, every word she uttered, breath humid against his bare skin as if she hoped it would absorb her words, the meaning behind them.

Sherlock was more eager this time, now that he knew what he was doing, what to expect, that he was allowed to do everything he wanted. That Y/N definitely _wanted_ him to do that stuff. His large hands were less hesitant in their roaming exploration of her curves, his body more involved. Because he'd done it before, now---although only once---Y/N noticed he was able to relax, muscles no longer slightly knotted with anxious anticipation, with that ever-present fear that he's doing something wrong, and were now loose and rhythmic, guided by instinct as he let himself be completely taken away with the experience.

He'd clearly taken mental notes last time, when he could, when he wasn't distracted by...well everything. And he's more self-assured, Y/N noted with satisfaction, not as hesitant now that he knows she wants him to touch her, now that he knows _how_ to. He's more confident this time, and it was obvious with everything passing second that one day the innocent, almost bumbling in the bedroom Sherlock would be gone forever and replaced with a sensuous, generous, assertive lover that could play Y/N's nervous system, make her sing, just like he does the violin in the sitting room. He's a perfectionist, a collector of information, his intellect and knowledge like a piece of art he was always adding to, refining. Y/N couldn't help a curl of excited anticipation tighten deep in her stomach as she realised he'd, no doubt, try to master this new skill as well.

Although, Y/N pondered, he will never _master_ it. Not really. He'll never be able to stop the groans of enjoyment that push up from his lungs when Y/N catches the tender skin of his ear between her teeth. He'll never be able to keep his cool when she runs a hand agonisingly slowly up the fragile, sensitive inside of his thigh. He won't be able to prevent every shred of logical thought being washed away with that final wave of catastrophic pleasure, no matter how good he gets at the rest of it.

He probably doesn't want to. Sherlock may be a genius, an eccentric, an _extraordinary_ individual, but all Y/N would have to do is drop her clothes to the floor and he'd be just like any other man; transfixed by the female form and the pleasure it can provide, humbled, controlled, a slave to his aching desire. And that's just the way he'd want it.

 _'He deserves it,'_ Y/N thought as she pressed a slow trail of kisses over the base of his neck. _'He's been tightly-coiled for too long. He deserves to unwind.'_ And she grinned at the fact that she had the pleasure of showing him how to.

...

Presently, a good while since Y/N had pulled Sherlock to her room, she was now nestled up to his side, his long slender fingers absently rubbing a pattern onto her shoulder. They hadn't left the mattress yet, Sherlock having tackled Y/N in a tight cuddle when she'd tried to leave to freshen up. She'd giggled and told him he'll get too hot after five minutes, decide he felt uncomfortably sticky and was in need of a shower. Since then, it had been much longer than five minutes, that landmark having come and gone unnoticed, and Y/N was still encapsulated by Sherlock's long, strong arms. If Y/N didn't know any better she'd say he was making up for that morning's cuddle that had gotten cut so dreadfully short.

Or maybe he was just a cuddly guy. Her heart fluttered excitedly in her chest at the realisation that she'd soon find out whether that was true; she'd learn a completely unseen side of her flatmate, her best friend, her Sherlock now that they were lovers (that word felt good. _Lovers)._ She'd get to lean up to catch his lips whenever she liked, feel his shoulders relax as he melts into her addictive embrace. She'd get to hear him moan, be the reason he does so, step into the shower with him, the bath, have him lift her onto the counter, push her up against the fridge. Would he be interested in those things? Y/N couldn't help smirking at his gasp of surprise, how his eyes had widened, pleasantly startled when she'd done something as simple as press a kiss to the base of his ear. Of course he's interested.

Y/N's mind was running away with thoughts of all the new experiences suddenly at her fingertips when Sherlock's deep baritone pulled her out of her stupor:

"I was so close to asking you if we could do it again, you know."

Y/N stretched a little, letting her arm fall across his waist. She felt him shift below her, getting a little more comfortable as she gave the softer centre of his stomach a small rub. Partly because her hand was bored. Mainly because she enjoyed touching him. And he makes lovely little sighing noises when she brushes over a sensitive spot. "What?"

Sherlock took a few lazy seconds to reply, his mind and body thoroughly spent, the slow soothing motion of Y/N's hand having the same effect as a mug of warm milk before bed. "This. I kept thinking about asking you if we could do it again...This morning as soon as we'd woken up. When we got back from the hotel. And pretty much every single second since. When I realised--- _thought_ I realised---that it hadn't meant as much to you as it had to me, I was...I don't know. I felt betrayed. Not by you, mainly by myself, for thinking it was a good idea. I reached the," he smiled, not that Y/N could see, " _wrong_ conclusion that you saw it as just a fling, and I vowed to myself that I'd never let myself do it again. It hurt too much. Emotionally. I thought you saw it as meaningless so I assumed you wouldn't mind if I asked to spend the night with you again, but I promised myself I wouldn't give in to my body's desires. I wouldn't ask you for a second time. Even when you came down for breakfast with your hair freshly washed. Even when you put on your coat and your T-shirt rose up a little. Even when I could hear you laugh at something you were watching upstairs and it lit up my whole day just imagining your smile. My fingers were aching to run through your hair, my mouth longing to kiss down your body, my lips wanting to capture your grin---even though every fibre of my being craved you I didn't give in."

Despite his fatigue, Y/N felt his body feebly react to the images now floating before his mind's eye, the slight awakening of his tired muscles, the thrum of his heart. She couldn't help her lips pulling into a smug smile at his neediness, his body's obvious love for this new activity, this welcomed change to his life. Movements drugged with sleepy satisfaction, Y/N turned herself around to face Sherlock who watched her with an expression that could only be described as utterly love-sick.

He reached up to cup Y/N's chin with his finger, running his thumb over her lips. "You're incredibly hard to resist, Y/N."

Y/N couldn't help beaming---that's all she seemed to have done for the past several hours. Apart from when Sherlock had done that thing and her mouth had turned into a sort of 'O' shape instead.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, stifling the answering groan with her mouth. "And you are surprisingly romantic."

  
  
  
  



End file.
